Crossfire

by Dale Lucas

  "What if it's the kid?" Monk asked. "Maybe the reverend's out? Maybe his niece is in there, all by herself?"

  Toby turned toward him. Even in the dark, Monk saw that he spoke around gnashed teeth and that his eyes glittered with menace. "Monk, close your big fat head or I'm gonna lay you out. I mean it."

  Monk nodded. He got the message. Toby was thin and wiry and probably weighed half as much as Monk, but he had a mean streak in him and Monk didn't want to get on his bad side. Monk pulled his piece to show he was ready. Toby led the way up the back stoop.

  XX

  While Toby and Monk were approaching the Farnes house, Ms. Lucille Walker was sitting in her parlor, at her favorite roll-top walnut writing desk, going over an article on the unionization of Pullman Car Porters that her husband had written for The Messenger. Why he insisted upon having her read his work and make notes for revisions, she would never know—he was the senior editor of The Messenger, after all, so there was no one to tell him his writing wasn't polished enough, or that his argument was too one-sided. Nevertheless, he begged her aid and she gave it, however tedious the task was.

  She had just reached the halfway point in the tiresome missive when she heard the ding-dong of their doorbell. Asa, her husband, called out that he would answer it. She heard his heavy footsteps move through the front hall and into the foyer. The door opened with a mild creak.

  Then, she heard two loud gunshots, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.

  She dropped Asa's editorial and rose to her feet, nearly knocking over the chair she sat in. Heavy footfalls moved through the front hall. They were coming right toward the doorway to the parlor.

  Part of her knew that she should run, should hide, should try to make it to the fire escape and flee. And yet, she also felt a strange sort of serenity. She knew that the distance from the front door to the doorway of the parlor was very short; she knew that the men who had shot her husband would be in the parlor and have her in their sights in a breath, perhaps two; and she knew that she didn't want to leave this world running for her life, screaming, silenced by two slugs in her back. It seemed… undignified.

  But I don't want to die, she thought, a little petulantly. I don't.

  That's when the gunmen appeared in the doorway. They were white men. Smoke still trailed from the muzzles of their shiny black pistols.

  "That's her, Ernie," one of the gunmen said. Both pistols rose and she stared down their still-smoking barrels.

  She couldn't move, even though part of her wanted to. Was it courage that kept her rooted? Or just plain fear?

  Maybe the Cemetery Man will save me again, she thought.

  Then the guns spat fire and the world went dark.

  I suppose not…

  XX

  The back door was unlocked—a stroke of luck—so they opened it slowly and slipped in with no trouble. They were in the kitchen, and it was dark. The only light burning—the light Monk had seen in the parlor—bled into a pair of corridors that each stretched forward from a pair of adjacent doors in the kitchen. One hall ran down the center of the house and led to the foyer and the front door. The other led down the north side of the house and gave off onto some side rooms before finally ending up in that front parlor. The house smelled nice, like oleander and warm bread. Monk's stomach rumbled.

  "Jesus," Toby snarled. "Shut that thing up."

  "Sorry," Monk whispered. "Just realized I'm hungry."

  "Then let's get this thing done," Toby hissed, exasperated. "Don't give me any grief and I'll buy you a pastrami on rye when we're done. Now come on—you go left."

  He meant they were going to split up, each moving down one of those hallways to see if anyone was home. Monk didn't know why, but he suddenly had a feeling like something bad was about to happen. He didn't know why he should feel that way—the Farnes home was tidy and quiet and smelled good and seemed cozy enough—but the feeling was there nonetheless. Was that what it felt like when the Hoodoo Man came for you? You felt his approach, like goose pimples rising on your arms, or the little hairs on your nape standing at attention, or your nuts sucking up into your groin in search of warmth and safety?

  Toby moved away from Monk and stepped into the outer hall. Monk forced himself to breathe again and pressed forward, down the hallway that led to the front door. The floorboards creaked beneath him.

  Something brushed the back of his neck. Monk whirled around, gun high. There was no one there—nothing that could have swung into his path and touched him—but he knew that he hadn't imagined it. It'd been firm and cold, but absolutely solid, like a hand falling on his shoulder.

  Something clattered out in the hallway. Monk whirled again, gun once more leading the way. A small, cylindrical rack for walking sticks and umbrellas at the foot of the stairs rolled back and forth on the hallway runner, its contents spilled onto the floor. Off to his right, Monk heard heavy, insistent footsteps and knew Toby was on his way.

  Where Monk stood in the hallway, just a few steps through the kitchen door, put him right alongside the staircase. He moved outward, away from the stairs and turned, following them upward with his eyes and even searching the landing above. He didn't see anyone—no one could have evaded being seen—and yet…

  And yet, that umbrella holder had been knocked over by someone.

  Or something.

  Could the preacher's house be haunted?

  A dark figure sprang out of the parlor. Monk raised his gun and nearly fired before he saw the figure raise its hands and duck a little. It was Toby.

  "What the fuck?" Toby hissed.

  "I don't think we're alone here," Monk whispered, and pointed to the overturned umbrella stand, a good ten feet ahead of him.

  Then, they heard a voice. Toby thought it was coming from a sideboard that stood against the staircase on his left, but then he realized the sideboard was actually blocking a door.

  The voice came from behind the door.

  "Who is that?" it said. It was deep. A man's voice. "Somebody out there?"

  What was that sideboard doing in front of that door?

  "Whoever's out there, help me out," the voice said.

  Toby was right beside Monk now. Both of them stared at the barricaded door, completely befuddled.

  "The reverend?" Monk asked.

  Toby just shrugged.

  "Look, whoever you are," the voice said, both pleading and impatient, "my kin have gone a little batty on me. Somebody locked me down here and I've been here for hours now. Could you help me out and move whatever's blocking the door?"

  Monk had a million questions, not the least of which was why some poor old preacher would get shut up in his own basement by his own family. Could it really be this easy? They'd come to find the man and kill him and here he was, locked up in the basement and waiting for them?

  "What are you doing down there, sir?" Toby said, speaking forcefully and without hesitation.

  "It's a long story," the voice on the other side of the door said. "Who are you?"

  "Police officers," Toby said. "Just happened to be passing by and, uh… saw the front door open."

  "Saw the front door open, eh?" the voice answered. There was something in the voice that Monk didn't so much care for now. A smile? A sneer?

  Toby moved next to the sideboard and leaned against it. He looked to Monk and nodded, making his orders clear without a single word: when the old man came out, Monk should put him down.

  Monk stepped back to get a good angle on the door and raised his pistol.

  "Hang on," Toby said. "We'll have you out in a jiff."

  He leaned against the sideboard and slid it away from the door. Toby turned and reached for the doorknob. "All right, mister. You can come out n—"

  The door burst open on its hinges, swung wide, and smashed Toby right in the face. The old jig that came barreling out of there didn't look like a preacher or an easy mark. From where Monk stood—right in his path—he looked like the devil incarnate, eyes
alight with lunatic glee and mouth open in a wide, snarling grin.

  Monk was so terrified, he forgot to pull the trigger.

  The old man was on him in a breath, bulldozing right into him in a flying tackle and sending Monk sprawling backward into the foyer. Monk hit the floor on his back, the old teapot on top of him, and felt the wind knocked right out of his barrel chest. The old man was laughing and growling something—something about being free at last, free at last—but Monk didn't hear it all and couldn't quite make sense of it. He was seeing stars and trying to catch his breath.

  The old man punched him square in the face. Monk tasted blood and felt a pillar of white-hot pain shoot up through his brain via his nose. He cried out, vaguely ashamed of himself for doing so, then choked as blood ran down the back of his throat.

  "Squeal, fat boy, squeal!!!" the old man sang, lifted himself up, and crashed back down on Monk again with his bent knee aimed right into Monk's belly. That blow stole Monk's breath again and sent a geyser of air and blood sailing up out of Monk's throat.

  "Jesus Christ, Monk!" he heard from somewhere far away. Was that Toby? Was Toby back on his feet yet?

  The reverend plucked Monk's gun right out of his fat hand, spun, and fired. He emptied three shots and Monk heard Toby give a grunt before something heavy—Toby, he guessed—hit the floor. Monk sure wished he could see something. His vision was all starry nights. He couldn't catch his breath, either, what with the old man on top of him and all that blood running down his throat.

  "I said squeal!!!" he heard the reverend say, then something grabbed his nutsack and squeezed. The reverend had a solid grip. Once more, Monk screamed like a girl. He felt sick, too—way down deep in the pit of his stomach. He tried to roll, sure he was going to puke, but the reverend's ironclad hold on his scrotum and the pain in his broken, bleeding nose and his inability to breathe made moving at all hard.

  He guessed he wouldn't be getting that pastrami sandwich tonight. Or ever.

  The pressure on his balls relented. Something hot and hard pressed against his forehead. He heard a click: a hammer cocked.

  "As much fun as this is," the reverend said, "I've got to be on my way, fat man. Thanks for the warm up."

  "Please," Monk managed. "Please…"

  "No," the reverend said.

  Then the front door opened—Monk heard its deadbolt clack and its hinges creak a little. A woman screamed, and a man said, "My God!"

  The gun moved away from Monk's forehead. "What the hell…" the reverend said, apparently quite shocked to see anyone in the doorway.

  "Back!" someone shouted—the man in the doorway.

  Then the reverend screamed and rose off of Monk. The sound he made wasn't a man's scream. It wasn't anything human at all. It was the sound of a legion of voices, all crying out in fright and shame and fury at once, and the suddenness of the reverend's retreat off of him made Monk think that the old man must have been yanked off him by a taut cable. He blinked. His vision was starting to clear now. He could draw breath, barely.

  "I order you back in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of Our Lord! I order you back in the name of God, the Father, God, the Son, and God, the Holy Spirit!"

  Monk blinked. He could see now. The sounds that the old reverend made continued. He was shouting in many voices, and they all seemed to be cursing in tongues that Monk didn't understand. The old man was rooted to the floor in the middle of the hallway, writhing and snarling and throwing himself back and forth between the walls and shaking his head and gnashing his teeth and foaming at the mouth.

  Monk managed to roll over. He craned his head up to look into the doorway.

  A pretty Negro lady stood there, clutching her hands up close to her mouth and looking like she was on the verge of screaming again. On one side of her stood a Negro teenager—gangly and wide-eyed—and on her other side, a man. He was of smaller stature and softer countenance than the Reverend Barnabus Farnes, but he was a holy man too—Monk could tell by the pewter cross he held out before him.

  The other preacher looked terrified, but his words and that cross seemed to do the trick.

  Thank God for small favors, Monk thought, and wondered when the blood might stop running into his eyes.

  17

  Jimmy Frame's last act before quitting his shift at Dexter's for the evening and kicking off three straight days of fun and freedom was to take out the garbage. He'd put in almost fourteen hours that day—from opening until just after the early bird dinner rush was done. But he was free now, armed with a pocket full of cash, a line on a rent party down in Philly the following night… and an open invitation to stop by Miss Rae's this evening. Hot damn! His luck was in! Maybe he'd play the numbers tomorrow.

  He didn't know why Miss Rae had asked him to dust the Reverend Farnes's eggs with that packet of powder this morning and he didn't care. She'd assured him that the old bird might just get a flip-floppy stomach or the trots off it—it wouldn't kill him or anything. More importantly, she'd promised him some alone time if he came through for her.

  Fella did a favor like this for me, he could call in a favor of his own, she had said as they talked in the alley that morning during one of his smoke breaks from the griddle line. Maybe I could give that fella a private reading? Or some hot mojo to make sure his weekend in Philly went aces, front to back? I could do that, you know. Make the dice always roll in your favor… make every hand a winner.

  Sounds good, Jimmy had told her, edging nearer so that he could smell the hoodoo lady's rosewater perfume. Private reading sounds real good. I'd like to know what's waitin' just around the corner for me.

  Mambo Rae Rae was at least ten years older than he was, but that didn't matter. She was still a ripe tomato, as far as he was concerned. He'd tried to pick her up on at least three separate occasions—once here at Dexter's, once at a speak over near Sugar Hill, and once when he'd sold her some bolito slips. Now, he was finally going to get a shot at her, and all he had to do was give some old preacher man the runs. On top of his natural attraction to her, he also thought there was something vaguely exciting and transgressive in the notion of balling a voodoo mambo. Maybe she knew some kind of crazy sex magic or something? Maybe bedding Miss Rae would give him some special shine from here on out, and he could stop being a small time, ex-con fry cook and start making something of himself? Jimmy had always been convinced that good things were just around the corner for him, after all—riches, respect, fame on the streets. He just needed one good, solid streak of luck, and he'd have everything he'd always wanted…

  But, for the time being, he was still just a fry cook at Dexter's, ending a long shift by taking out the garbage.

  He dragged a trashcan in each hand by their handles. The mothers were heavy—overflowing, in fact—but at least it wasn't raining. That was a blessing. Their appointed places were beside a bunch of other trashcans, twenty feet from Dexter's back door. The only light in the alley came from a lamp bolted high on the brick wall whose bulb flickered in fits and starts. Deeper in the alleyway, Jimmy heard a couple cats rutting, the molly squalling and crying like a baby hungry for milk. It sounded like the animals were killing each other instead of just getting their rocks off.

  Maybe he could make Miss Rae squeal like that. Wouldn't that be fine?

  And how's this gonna play out? he wondered. How's she gonna play me when I show up at her hoodoo shop, flash my million-dollar grin, and start laying on the charm with the clear intention of getting that thing before the night's done? Is she gonna remember our conversation and cut to the chase? Or am I gonna be playing games with that bitch for hours, talking in circles over a palm reading and some gin in her parlor? She laid her feminine wiles on thick this morning—clearly, she needed the preacher man's eggs dusted, and fast—but so what? Women have a way of forgetting their promises, don't they? Teasing, cooing, urging on—then begging off.

  Jimmy delivered the overflowing trashcans to their place on the alley wall. Huffing from the effort, he drew a ci
garette from behind his ear, then lit it with a match popped on the brick wall. He puffed on his cigarette in the dark, the naked light back near the door still fluttering teasingly. The cats were done caterwauling now. It was quiet. He just heard the far away sounds of slow traffic on 140th Street, and the occasional drip-drop of water sweating off the buildings and drainpipes around him.

  Yeah… Miss Rae might need some coaxing. Teasers always did. True, she wasn't some sweet young thing didn't have a clue as to share her cunny yet—young 'uns were the worst, as far as prick teasing was concerned—but there was still the off-chance that a smart, sexy older lady like Miss Rae might not honor her insinuations and give him what he came for.

  Well, then, he'd just have to remind her. Convince her. That's what his buck knife was for, right?

  Jimmy turned to walk the two dozen steps back to the alley door of Dexter's. His cigarette drooped off his lips, and already he felt his trousers getting tight around his black snake, the promise of some seasoned hoodoo poon exciting him.

  Someone stood in his way now, though. Someone big whose frame blocked the stuttering light above Dexter's back door. The stranger wore a coat and top hat.

  Shit.

  Jimmy turned and bee-lined in the opposite direction—all the way toward the end of the block—before he'd even consciously named the shadow in the alleyway.

  Coat and top hat? That's the Cemetery Man! The one everybody's buzzing about!

  All Jimmy could think of as he ran—eager to put as much space as possible between he and the Cemetery Man—was that he didn't know what he'd done. He hadn't rolled anybody lately… hadn't cheated at cards or dice in almost three weeks… hadn't been burgling or pulling short cons or even doing truck runs down to Jersey for crates of bootleg hooch for Dexter and his business-owning buddies on the block—not recently, anyway. Sure, he'd been thinking about what he might have to do to get Miss Rae to give up the goods when he came to cash in his chips, but what of that? Was he guilty already in the Cemetery Man's eyes for just thinking about strong-arming her and making sure he got his due tonight?